


Last Life

by skund



Category: DCU Animated
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-17
Updated: 2010-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:05:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skund/pseuds/skund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for WFGE prompt F5: A slashed-up ending to the "Public Enemies" movie, showing Bruce and/or Clark's thoughts during the last scenes (during the final fight and rescue). This fic pretty closely follows the final ten minutes of <em>Superman/Batman: Public Enemies</em>, so it contains spoilers for the above and also probably won't make much sense without knowledge of the movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Life

"Goodbye" Batman had said, eyes guarded and blank even behind the cowl's lenses and then Superman was falling, falling, falling and it felt like he'd never stop, even after the cold steel of the gangway slammed against his back. Because Batman was going to sacrifice himself to save the world; fly that ridiculous rocket into the radiant, green asteroid and blow himself to hell. Suddenly, suddenly, Superman couldn't breathe. He was weak and exhausted from the endless fighting and enduring Luthor's smug grin and confident eyes. Superman's back stung from the impact and he knew that he could only rest for a fraction of a second but there was only empty comfort because Batman had said goodbye. The memories Clark held within him when he fought; his Pa's soft smile, the way Lois tucked her hair behind her ear, the smell of Ma's pie cooling on the kitchen windowsill, faded and skittered out of his grasp. Superman was meant to be the one with the last minute rescue, the herculean effort and the sacrifice to save all. Not Batman, not Bruce. Because, of all the heartbreaks and defeats and sorrows Superman had endured, he didn't think he could keep on going without the knowledge that Batman was there, at his back. He just... he couldn't. He loved his family and Lois and his job and Metropolis and... but... Bruce. God, _Bruce_. No.

Superman staggered to his feet with his head spinning and flew up towards Bruce, where he'd seen him disappear into the rocket, as fast as he could manage. No. Not now. Not like this. Bruce... Superman reached out, a dozen arguments forming on his tongue and when they failed a solid right hook would stop Bruce and keep him safe while Clark saved the world. Yes, then they- Green.

Green and _pain_ and the next thing Superman knew he was down on the unforgiving steel again with Luthor's fists in his face. Clark staggered to his feet, only to be met with more fists and more pain. Down on his knees and then the cold floor against his cheek. The entire, giant structure around them started to shake and the rocket prepared to launch. Superman couldn't get up again. Not now. Not with Batman slipping away to his death. Clark could already almost feel the void Bruce would leave in his wake, and it was absurd how much the secretive, acerbic and deeply private man had affected Clark's life; in minute little ways Clark had never even noticed until this threshold when every smug smile and scathing remark glittered like a star about to go nova, and be lost forever. He couldn't get up. What was the point of saving the world if Batman was gone? A wave of guilt and self-loathing hit Superman like a kick to the gut before he'd even finished the thought. Of course they'd save the world. They always did. It was what they did. But this time would be the last time. The last time the two of them stared down the gauntlet of disaster together, side by side. And it _hurt_, that simple fact.

Clark couldn't get up. But then, Luthor was talking again, about whatever it is he rambles on about in these moments. Clark almost tuned him out before he realised Lex was rambling on about _him_. Superman this and Superman that, like he hadn't just seen one of Earth's greatest heroes for the last time, watched him step up and sacrifice himself for billions of people he'd never know. No. Clark could not tolerate this. Batman was to... is going to... die. This moment, this awful, aching hour was Bruce's, and Superman would make Luthor know it.

The rocket engines ignited, blasting them both in a wash of scaling air. Luthor made to fly after the rocket but Clark grabbed him, held him down, and earned himself another Kryptonite-fueled blow. Luthor took off into the brilliant, firey air, the rocket roaring around them, and Clark followed. A full body slam to bring them both down. Luthor's exosuit was as painful as the steel floor below, but Clark had more than enough pain to contend with, and barely felt it. A wall, tooth-jarring impact and tiny splinters of concrete flying around them, melting as they fell into the inferno below. Then Clark threw Luthor into a gangway, brought him down and held him down and this was it, too late, too late as the rocket slipped shakily into the cool, night sky, leaving only brimstone in its wake, and the dance of ash on the air.

Superman watched the rocket until it was little more than a speck of light in the distant atmosphere; another star. Then the light faded. The heat faded. The air lost the scalding heat and the metal walkways ticked as they cooled. It was done. Bruce was gone.

The battle high faded also; the adrenalin singing though Clark's veins was depleted and as the rocket's roar departed the quiet in its wake drained him and left him feeling broken and raw. He turned to look at Luthor, who returned his gaze with another well-aimed fist. Clark was sick. Sick, sick, sick of this and caught the fist with one hand, twisted it and broke it and felt the exosuit crumble between his fingers. This _man_. This stupid, blind, egotistical... _monster_. Who wheeled and dealed and bought what wasn't for sale and sold what wasn't his, this man had killed Bruce. He'd killed them all, with his schemes and his lies. But more than that, he'd killed _Bruce_ and left Clark here to fight, alone. And Luthor hadn't even acknowledged what he'd done. What he'd broken. Clark saw red, swallowed blood, felt loosened teeth graze against his cheek.

"That was my best friend. And you just killed him," he ground out through clenched teeth. And then he hit Luthor. Just hit him. No pulling his punches or playing fair or doing the right thing, Clark emptied his reserves into one last punch that sent Luthor into a solid concrete pylon, then onto his knees coughing blood.

But it wasn't enough. No matter what Clark did, it was never _enough_ with this man. Luthor was on his feet within moments, jet boots launching him into the air. Clark followed instantly, like a hound with a scent. There was nothing to keep him there anyway.

\---

They ended up in Metropolis. Of course they did; they always did. Superman finally brought Luthor down to ground level, his exosuit almost in shreds, in a square not three blocks from the Daily Planet. But every vengeful thought flew out of his head as an explosion ripped through the sky. Clark turned, looked up, uncomprehending for a moment and then... oh.

_Goodbye_.

The gathered crowd began to cheer, hands and voices raised to the sky, because they were saved and safe and could rest easy because when they woke up tomorrow the world would be the same. For them. But not for Clark. He'd lost his best friend, his partner, his ally. A pair of cold, blue eyes and a quirked, faint smile. Night-times underground and the soft drip of water and dozing bats. Last minute rescues. A faithful listener. A challenger. A piece of his heart.

Luthor started up again with his ranting and Clark almost startled; he'd forgotten Luthor was there. A punch and some showy words for the crowd and Superman promptly forgot the man again. Somehow, tonight, he just couldn't hold onto the rage the bald billionaire usually inspired in him. He walked away, with no destination in mind and, really, no inclination to ever stop walking away, when the sound of boots hitting the pavement behind him made him turn. The others had found him and Clark felt his heart lurch because he didn't feel capable of putting on a cheerful façade at the moment. Words and words and then slender blue gloves on his bicep as Power Girl voiced a phrase that drove through Clark like lightening.

"-there's still a chance-"

It hurt. The sudden surge of pure, blazing _hope_ that ran through Clark burned him like fire never could. In a heartbeat his pain, exhaustion and despair fell away, and in the next heartbeat so did the Earth and he flew straight up into the sky. To find Bruce.

Debris floated past him. So much of it, metal twisted and wrought almost beyond recognition. But in amongst it all, a ship, fragile canopy intact and Clark almost laughed in the airless vacuum when he saw it was their symbols, entwined. Together. Bruce was just stirring inside, turned to meet his gaze. Clark beamed. He'd be inclined to call it a miracle, if Batman didn't disdain such things.

Superman grabbed the ship and flew down to Earth as fast as he could manage, because he didn't know how much air, or how long or how concussed or dazed or variables, variables. Batman always hated unknown variables.

There were crowds waiting for his return, _Their_ return, which Clark had not anticipated. And was gratified for. Batman had risked everything for them, he deserved their attention and praise. Love. Superman dropped the ship onto a Metropolis rooftop and pulled the canopy free. Batman instantly staggered to his feet, shaken but trying to hide it, and Clark reached out a supporting hand to steady him, help Bruce hide his trembling limbs from the cameras. Thick leather gloves slipped into his palm and it was soft and warm and real, real, so deliciously, credibly real and suddenly Clark wasn't interested in hiding any more. He reached out with his other hand to grab Batman by his free elbow and pulled him out of the cockpit and up against Clark's body. Batman, uncharacteristically, spluttered and stumbled. His pupils were dilated and dazed and words like 'head trauma' danced across Clark's thoughts, but also words like 'opportunity' and 'want' and the next thing he knew his lips were softly brushing against Bruce's own, which where slightly parted in surprise.

Clark wasn't... sure. Didn't know... what to do, or if he was even permitted to do this, but couldn't think of any other way to say 'my world doesn't exist without you in it' and he almost pulled away until the moment he felt Bruce's lips part further under his, warm and soft and cautiously wanting. Clark responded in kind, slow but sure. Then Bruce's shaking hands were wrapping around his broad shoulders and sliding into his hair and pulling him close; an invitation. Clark took it, gladly, and never looked back.

\---

Apparently there'd been an awful lot of media helicopters around that day, far more than Superman had seen. Or maybe he'd just been a little too distracted. Because the two of them were front page news for the next week. Clark Kent had blushingly weaseled his way out of writing so many articles on the event that Perry had ordered him to mandatory Equality and Tolerance workshops. Meanwhile, Lois had been fire and ice and brimstone at him; he'd mourned until he'd found out most of her spite was due to her loosing some kind of League run betting pool. She hadn't talked to him for a few days, then had come to him with a proposition for him, and her, and _Bruce_, that had left him speechless for half an hour. He still had to get back to her on that.

Bruce wasn't talking to him either. But he'd come around. Clark had found a moonflower on his pillow the other night, the rich, smoky haze of Gotham still clinging to its petals.

Clark had hope.


End file.
